


plant thorns in the flesh

by oriflamme



Series: robots. robots everywhere [26]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Grief/Mourning, M/M, The Transformers: Lost Light, The Transformers: More Than Meets the Eye (IDW), Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, let's try this again, self-sabotage, valveplug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-04
Updated: 2019-01-04
Packaged: 2019-10-03 21:56:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17292170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oriflamme/pseuds/oriflamme
Summary: Whirl is not nice. Whirl does the not nice things, because someone has to. One blissful day, his inability to shut up and stop sticking his neck into other people's business will get him killed.Haha. Irony.





	plant thorns in the flesh

**Author's Note:**

> Me, starting on that last fic: Whirl is gonna angstily ride Cyclonus's spike -
> 
> /jump cut to several paragraphs later/
> 
> \- aaand I took away both their dicks. 
> 
> Hm. Wait. Fuck.
> 
> So here. Another variation on the the same theme.

Guilt is one hell of an aphrodisiac.

Cyclonus doesn't have his words at the moment. Not like he's the chattiest Cathy around, most days, but since the incident, he's - locked up pretty tight. He communicates in monosyllables and stiff nods, and walks on autopilot, his optics fixed in the distance rather than on any of the people around him. To the untrained eye - to every self-absorbed afthead on this ship, in other words - he probably looks blank. A little lost. Like he's waiting for input that'll never come.

Whirl shouldn't be the one stacking energon cubes in front of Cyclonus with an imperious _clack!_ every morning to make sure he refuels, glaring him down until a blank, bleakly exhausted Cyclonus drains it. Whirl shouldn't be the one who comes to stand by Cyclonus at the back of every room or group huddle, folding his arms and glaring menacingly at anyone dumb enough to wander too close. But he is, and he does, and when Cyclonus's rigid stance starts to falter at the end of another interminable day, Whirl is the one who elbows and chivvies and snaps his claws and makes excuses until everyone else falls away and he can haul Cyclonus back to their room in peace.

Better than everyone else being in pieces. Someone should probably take Cyclonus's big honking sword away.

If he were a better person, he'd listen to the tense, clenching knot of shame in his tanks before he turns off the lights, crawls on top of Cyclonus, and lets his panel slide open, legs bracketing Cyclonus's. He wouldn't let his unsteady [not-hands] wander to hesitantly brush against the gaunt lines of Cyclonus's face, like Cyclonus is somehow fragile and Whirl somehow deserves something like - that. Ha!

Like he's not taking advantage.

( _I told him the truth_. The confession rots in his throat, mealy and repulsive.)

But he's weak.

The worst moment is the hanging gap - the clutching, claustrophobic break between Whirl starting and Cyclonus engaging. That's when the guilt crawls along his insides, and his processor fractures a little more each time as the conflicting compulsions wrench him in two different directions. The pent-up agitation leaves him shaking and shuddering with something that isn't arousal; he's not used to keeping his nonexistent mouth shut. Ha. It's a real struggle! People usually wince or recoil a little when they see something like Whirl joining them on the berth. But no. He might as well be feeling up a statue like some kind of desperate, pathetic fool to take his mind off how this is all his fault, and he wants to yell ( _I told him I told him I told him_ cycling endlessly in his fried vocalizer queue) and smash himself against the nearest wall until his optic cracks and he wants Cyclonus to do it for him, because Cyclonus deserves to do the honors.

It's a punishment as much as it is an indulgence. Whirl is just scummy enough to drag Cyclonus into it with him. Whirl can't ruin something that was ruined from the start, but he'll be damned if he doesn't take a crack at it.

But before Whirl can implode and vomit it all up in a corrosive, scathing flood (anything to get a response out of him, _anything_ , even if it means prodding Cyclonus right in the open wound -) Cyclonus's optics refocus, so shattered with fatigue as he looks up at Whirl that oh wow, is that a knife in Whirl's spark, or just another piercing stab of guilt? Why not both?

If Whirl had his way (if he weren't weak), this would hurt more. But every single time he lets Cyclonus take over instead, excuses seeping through his distant processor. Once Cyclonus really _looks_ at him, Whirl can't seem to fix his gaze anywhere near Cyclonus's face, turning away like some blushing fragging maiden as Cyclonus reaches for him.

(Whirl's not sure if it's better or worse if Cyclonus is pretending he's…someone else. Not that Whirl would blame him! The guilt cramps tighter and tighter in his gut, and that's exactly what he should feel.)

So instead of sliding down hard and fast and riding until his valve bruises, Whirl lets Cyclonus do what he wants. Whirl's pathetically ready before he even starts, because Whirl wants what he shouldn't get to have - wants it like burning - but Cyclonus firmly grasps his shivering hips and makes him hold still as Cyclonus presses and folds sharp-tipped fingers into his dripping valve. It's a lot and not, at the same time, and Whirl's whole frame trembles like he's standing in the blast from someone else's jet engine. Finally, _finally_ , Cyclonus draws his hand away and centers Whirl so he can lower him onto the waiting spike.

Cyclonus is - fragging solid. A simple, solid, understated curve. Most of Whirl is stripped down battle armor, built to take a beating but not to last. What was the point when he just walks in and out of the revolving door of medical with his armor slagged up after every fight, anyway? Whirl squirms to get himself seated fully, until the restive twitches and keyed up nerves jolt into something more productive. A lot of the sensation's just a dull, heavy, fullness in his lower body - his sensor net is the cheapest the Senate could buy - until he starts to move.

He usually gets a few good thrusts in, rising up on his awkward knees and sliding back down with a hiss, before Cyclonus reaches up - too gently, his optics softened for someone other than Whirl - and pulls him down into an embrace. Whirl's cockpit isn't built for full frontal hugs but Cyclonus pulls him flush against him, chest angled to the side so that Whirl's helm rests sideways just under his chin. His hands spread wide and firm on each side of Whirl's waist, curling to pull him closer still, and it pings some of the good memories of the Wreckers. Getting mechhandled by someone strong enough to crush him like a tin can. Mm. Most of the Wreckers bored enough to frag an empuratee would just bend Whirl over.

No more room to move, though. Once they're there, Cyclonus won't let him back up, no matter how mutinously Whirl mutters and twists. The heat rising from Cyclonus's frame and streaming from his vents in waves smothers Whirl, too warm and too close, until Whirl's dizzy enough with the headiness of close proximity to grind and rock deep against him, aching for sensation. Whirl's substandard vocalizer usually gives out after the first keening whine and reverts to binary, while Cyclonus makes low, stifled noises that never quite escape his throat. The closest he ever gets to screaming is tipping his head back, the cables of his neck bared, mouth parted slightly in a silent exhale. One time he bit Whirl's neck to muffle a sound, almost hard enough for Whirl to pretend it hurt. That was a good day.

Whirl wants to fragging hurt. He wants them to shove and knock each other and claw their way to an overload where they're both a steaming, dented mess, not - whatever this is. This slow, rolling build that makes his chest squeeze in new, uncomfortable ways. He did not approve of this, dammit. One of these days, he's gonna break and blurt out the truth (because he can't resist picking away at good things until the scab breaks) and he'll never get this again. If Cyclonus doesn't kill him instantly, Whirl might at least get a rugged scar or two out of the ensuing wrath. To better remember this whole ignominious episode in his life. As if he wouldn't want to curl up in a nice dark corner and vomit up his regrets for a small eternity.

He's kind of repulsive! Cyclonus will catch on eventually, even if Whirl has to pull the trigger himself. He's not sure where Rodimus draws the line for scumbags - this _is_ the mech who wound up _wanting_ Megatron on board, so it's safe to say that Rodimus is an absolute madmech - but Whirl probably deserves to skulk around the ship bearing the brunt of Cyclonus's furious grief, and whatever other repercussions the crew thinks up.

But for now, he gets this. It's not what he wants (except for how it is), but it's what Cyclonus seems to want. He's grief-stricken. And if this is what he wants, Whirl can give it. If it means Cyclonus doesn't sit up every night in a haze of dull-eyed, unsleeping lethargy, silent and staring and listing to the side and making Whirl restless in turn, until he eventually collapses and can't get up.

Oh, the irony.

( _No one is telling anyone anything, ever,_ Cyclonus said. Drained, beat down. Enduring in his usual stoic, stuck up silence. Sparks sluicing from the exposed matter where Tailgate tore half his face off.

Cyclonus should've remembered Whirl is one he comes to when he wants the truth. Even if the truth hurts. He's not allowed to complain about Getaway telling Tailgate what he _wants_ to hear, not what he needs to hear, and then just - just fragging - expect Whirl to _not -_ to just watch Cyclonus throw himself back in the grinder, ahaha -

Whirl is not nice. Whirl does the not nice things, because someone has to. One blissful day, his inability to shut up and stop sticking his neck into other people's business will get him killed.

Hahaha. Irony.)

Whirl can't get a grip on himself. Part of his processor wants to careen over a cliff. Wants to loom over Cyclonus, claws clamped on his shoulders, and stare him point blank in the eye as he tells him what really happened.

He succeeds in raising himself up with wobbly claws and rolls harder. They've been going long enough that the outer edge of his valve feels dry, stretched around the base of Cyclonus's solid spike and rasping against the metal, and even the smallest shift in the angle sends a bolt of deep, woozy pleasure up Whirl's spine. He tries to arch with an extended, uneven gasp - his vocalizer gave up the ghost a while back - but Cyclonus pushes a palm flat against the small of Whirl's back to keep them pressed together. Whirl sinks back down - _weak_ \- and rubs the side of his helm against Cyclonus's chest with another choked whimper. Cyclonus brings his other hand up, stroking the back of Whirl's head on autopilot.

It's a little sickening, how much he wants this. He's not the one Cyclonus needs, here. But it's warm, and Whirl clutches closer as he hitches his hips and grinds down. The rhythm stutters a little as he drags Cyclonus over the tipping point with him, and a hoarse snarl rumbles through Whirl's audials as Cyclonus crushes him and they ride out the aftershock.

(One of these days, he'll say Tailgate's name. He never says Whirl's. He doesn't say anything at all.)

Whirl basks in the contentment for a greedy minute. His head feels too heavy and heady (heh) to lift up. He can feel faint crimps in the back edge of his helm from Cyclonus's grip. There's a warm thrum in Cyclonus's chest, deeper than an engine, something that makes Whirl's spark chamber ache with sympathy pangs.

He doesn't get to have that.

Cyclonus rouses after a few minutes, his dim optics flaring a little as they flicker back on in the dark room. So he probably hasn't _literally_ blown a fuse. His clawed fingers smooth over the back of Whirl's head, his expression more of a drowsy frown than a blank mask of grief as the two of them silently vent the excess heat and charge.

Mission accomplished. Whoo-hoo. Whirl keeps his head tucked down so he has an excuse to glance away and not acknowledge the brief moments where Cyclonus searches for eye contact. Easier for everyone if Cyclonus doesn't think about it too hard. Otherwise he might come to his senses and realize he's spike-deep inside of a Whirl, and no amount of fragging will make it be a Tailgate instead.

Ouch. Haha. That's a good one. He jots that line down for later, when he stops hemming and hawing and commits to wrecking this. All good things, wreck and rule, etc.

The urge to crawl away and let the guilt ferment finally overpowers the selfish, clinging part of Whirl's processor, and he starts to extricate himself from Cyclonus's heavy arms to sit upright, still venting steam. His valve cycles around the spike as he reluctantly starts to drag himself off - most of the lubricant rubbed in, and Cyclonus is an ancient old electric standard model with no fluid - and he makes it halfway off before he accidentally makes eye contact.

Mistake. The unreadable intent in Cyclonus's eyes pins Whirl in place like a stick of rebar through the chest. Whirl hunches his shoulders, bristling as he hovers where he stalled out.

"Stay," Cyclonus croaks. Which is like. Maybe the second word he's said all week.

It's not round two, which would've at least given Whirl something to channel the need to _move_ before he can think. His hand comes up to cup Whirl's helm again as he retracts the spike, and Whirl only manages to feebly toss his head. He can't bring himself to pull away when Cyclonus tugs him back down against his chest. Whirl shifts uneasily a few times before falling still, awkwardly sprawled over Cyclonus like some kind of chest-sucking parasite.

Cyclonus traces a hand up and down the transformation seam of Whirl's back, over and over, staring up into the dark without speaking.

Whirl lets one claw hang over the side and taps the edge against the berth, and counts down the seconds internally, as steady and inexorable as caesium.


End file.
